It is the eve
of another portentous day.
It is the eve of the day everything
could change. Haven’t we said
such things before? Didn’t we
go to bed convinced it was the end?
Sometimes I can no longer
bear to listen to the news.
And then I wonder what I’ve missed.
Tonight, my same child who woke
with tears the morning after November 8
is making hand-made holiday cards.
With a sure hand, she cuts out
shapes directly out of paper—
trees adorned with stars, wires
strung with colored lights;
a frieze of falling snowflakes.
What the mind thought, the gut
relayed. Here are all the cards
laid out on the table,
their insides waiting
to be inscribed.

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